


and we burn and we scatter our ashes

by TheKitteh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt!Sam, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post Season 8, Wincest - Freeform, emotional hurt & comfort, established relationship in all forms of the word, hardships of brotherly relationship, hell issues, minor physical injuries, protective!Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:13:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKitteh/pseuds/TheKitteh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Castiel who knows where and Sam still recovering from the clusterfuck the trials turned out to be, the brothers try to deal with the aftermath of everything that's happened with them and between them.  When case takes them to Ypsilanti, Michigan once again and they meet Delilah - a woman with seemingly one mission in  her life - things once again spiral out of control.<br/>In the end, both Sam and Dean can either have everything they want or loose each other in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and we burn and we scatter our ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Set after season 8 finale and canon divergent.

„So what you’re actually telling me, is that people have just…spontaneously combusted?” Dean blinked at Sam blearily, fingers curled around his still full, still hot coffee.

There was a pillow-print on his stubbly cheek, his short hair were a disarray of spikes; Dean looked grumpy and muffled, and Sam barely managed to hide a grin behind his own cup. Seeing his brother like this, eyes glazed with the remains of sleep, skin still pink-warm from his bed, was a sight he enjoyed and one that made Sam's heart swell in that funny, unexplainable way in his chest. Sam liked to cherish and enjoy the small things in his messed up life. And his vagabond of a brother, all domestic and nesting, was surely one those small things, even if he had to enjoy it in silence and under the pretense of looking the other way.

"It's been happening for a couple of weeks now," Sam finally pointed to one circled section with his finger, answering the question after a while. "Seven people total. Police things it’s some kind of cult or  ritual killings."

„Why?” There was also a box of donuts on the table, rich with frosting and sprinkles. They left a sweet, sticky shine on Dean’s fingers and he sucked his thumb clean, eyes half-lidded in pleasure as he awaited Sam’s explanation.

“Well…” He pointed to the blurry photographs after Dean took another drink of his cup – he waited with the details until Dean was full off sugar and caffeine -  then to  the small text beneath them. “Check this out.”

Dean stifled a yawn, his eyes moving as he read. He blinked then, already alert and focused, one brow up when he looked back at his brother, “What the hell?”

“Yeah.” There was no use in scowling at the knowing smirk that suddenly pulled at the corners of Dean’s mouth.  The thrill of finding a hunt got to Sam as well as it did to his brother, despite all of his dreams of safe and normal throughout the years. “Hearts ripped out and the word _glory_ actually burned into them. Definitely our kind of thing.”

“Dude, this is sick even by our standards. And we got those pretty low." Dean’s lips formed a full-blown pout as he pushed the newspaper away. His coffee cup was almost empty and there was a brownish stain in the corner of his mouth. “Right, so this freak-show awaits us where?”

Sam’s slight moment of hesitation didn’t go unnoticed and Dean cocked one eyebrow at him, a silent, pressing question that Sam felt unwilling to answer. “Ypsilanti.” He held his brother’s gaze and witnessed the change as  the green, green eyes  sharpened, the full lips formed a tight line. The easy, almost lazy atmosphere from a second before withered away and Sam felt the lack of it as if something vital has been torn away from him.

“Michigan?”

Of course Dean knew, of course he remembered. Because it was always there with them, that oh so distant memory of flickering bright lights and mixed smells, of the thick eggnog and glazed eyes - _of slurred words, of ragged breaths_ \- that was somehow wedged between them; a painful reminder of _before_. They had many of those, all kinds of befores and afters, but that one felt different.

It was different.

It was everything they had, everything they lost and never managed to get back in full.

“Yeah.” Sam crushed the paper with a little too much force, formed a tight ball that did nothing to calm the sudden shake of his hand.

Dean rolled his shoulders, set them in a tight line as he made his way towards the bathroom.  He stopped before turning the corner, turned again to face his brother. "You sure about going, Sammy?"

There it was, the easy way out, offered under the cover of care and worry. It would be so easy to take it, but Sam felt that they had to go back to hunting. All these weeks they’ve been slowly, painfully slowly trying to repair their relationship; ever since that day when the skies burned above them and Dean’s raw desperation smoothed over Sam’s battered soul. They had a long way to go still and the road will be bumpy to say the least, and somehow, starting over again in Ypsilanti seemed almost like a sign of some sort.

"Yeah....yeah," He coughed to clear his throat of the sudden dryness. "I'm sure. We can’t just abandon the hunts, you know."

Dean sighed, ran one hand through the mess of his hair. His eyes softened again, lost that viciously sharp glint, that much Sam managed to see before Dean looked away from him. "Alright, alright, gimme ten to get ready and we’ll hit the road."

When Dean disappeared from his sight – slippers and robe all in place, his footsteps a soft, quiet _tap tap tap_ \- Sam let out a long breath he didn't realize holding. He was so certain Dean would say no, with his brother so keen on keeping him locked up in their home and all, that the actual agreement left him a little bit breathless. But Sam was also certain that what they needed right now, was to get out and _do_ something. And maybe yeah, his health was still faltering, the remains of the unfinished trials still circling around deep in his bones and in the flow of his blood, and Dean’s mother-hen-like tendencies sometimes felt too much, but they had to go out.  Get back in their game. There were still things out there, demons and monsters, and they were still hunters.

Still, Sam could only hope it wouldn't fuck up the way how things were between them right now, when after months, or maybe years, really, they finally got to be brothers once again. He almost forgot what it felt like, living and breathing in the same rhythm with Dean, how his brother’s _love_ – because Dean did love him, despite what Sam came to believe over the years - felt. Despite how far from his beloved normal this was, they once again slotted against each other like parts of a well-oiled machine and sometimes Sam thought that this could easily be enough, that this could be it for him,  just him and Dean against the whole world.

He missed that.

And it scared him to realize how much he _wanted_ that.

 

****

Ypsilanti was as quiet and cozy and freaking _weird_ as they remembered. Sure, it gained a few more houses, a few more picture perfect streets with neatly trimmed bushes and flower beds,  and it was picture lovely as it used to be, deceivingly or not. And if anyone recognized their faces from that goddamn Christmas fiasco from years ago, well, no one even uttered a word. They bunked in the same motel, which happened to be the _only_ motel, right after arriving late in the evening. The beds were as crappy as they remembered  - springs sprained and creaking with their every move- the TV still picking up shit on the whole of four channels, but as far as Sam was concerned, he couldn’t care less. He got to sleep to the familiar soundtrack of his life – his brother’s breathing – and wow if that was a thing he’d ever say out loud. Dean would call him a girl – yeah that’s right, not a woman, a freaking   _girl –_ every day for the rest of their lives, that’s for sure, no matter how short that would actually be. But still, come morning,  Dean went all on his own, not even giving Sam a chance to offer his assistance; just left him in the room to do his part. Not that Sam would blame him, not really; with breaks of fever and week knees that still took over his body, it was probably for the best that he'd stay put, but it still didn't mean Sam was fucking thrilled about it. Sitting all alone and typing away, for a couple of hours straight, rubbed Sam the wrong way and left him skittish, restless. He found himself glancing at the clock every five minutes, waiting for the door to open and for his brother to come back.

It was a sad realization, acknowledging that he missed them being a team, he missed Dean being a complete and utter idiot in front of people. Sometimes, he even missed their cheap and matching suits and unbelievable stories.

It was way past afternoon when Dean came back to the motel, ripped his tie off with a gesture that was relief and disgust both. “Dude,” Sam immediately looked up at from the screen when Dean stomped by the shitty table, blinked at the sudden swirl of bright red and black dots that danced before his eyes.  “Next time I get to spend the morning web surfing and you can go poke around on hearts.”

Sam allowed himself a small smile at his brother’s familiar grumpiness. “Well, sure sounds like you had fun.”

“Oh fuck you very much," Dean scoffed, getting a case of beer in the ratty fridge. He popped two bottles open before taking a seat opposite of his brother. “So you found out anything?”

The cold from the bottle prickled Sam’s fingers. “Well there’s an online record I got in,” he sighed with content, the beer just what the doctor ordered. “It seems the victims all moved in here during the past year.”

“Anything else they got in common? ‘Cause lemme tell ya Sammy, except for those carved hearts? Couldn’t see anything those poor bastards could have shared.”

“Yeah well they’re all dead.” Dean gave him the most incredulous look from above his own bottle - oh how well he could hear the _wow really Sammy?_ _You needed the internet to figure that one out?_ -  and Sam quickly shook his head. “No Dean I mean… they were dead _before_ this. They were all Johns and Janes Doe, all over the West Coast, before, well, I know this sounds stupid, but before _moving_ here.”

His brother stared at him for what seemed like eternity, the serious look completely fake and Sam clamped down the urge to fidget under the steady gaze. Yeah, he realized how that sounded, but still that was the truth.

Finally, Dean blinked, sighed, “Christ, this is some weird shit even for us,” and rubbed one hand over his face. “So you’re basically saying we got a bunch of dead guys moving to Ypsi-fucking-lanti, Michigan _and_ getting butchered all over again? What the ever loving fuck, man?” He made an indefinite gesture with his  hands. “The police have found out shit, by the way, thanks for asking. They literally have _nothing_. Except for that cult shit that's all over the papers."

”Well... I got a possibility, I mean, I’m not sure, like one hundred percent sure, but I…” He hesitated then, scratching the colorful  label on the bottle for a second or two. “I think it might be demons.”

“Demons.” The flat of Dean’s voice told everything and Sam sighed again. He hated bringing this up, despite the passage of time and everything between,  it was an ever-festering wound they both picked on.

“Yeah, demons.” He pushed a few tufts of hair out of his eyes and told himself that the dampness on his fingers was from the cold bottle. “They can use a dead body as a meat suit as well as take possession of a normal, living person.”

Dean didn’t look at him, didn’t need to for Sam to _know_. There was that tiny, small clench of his jaw, the barely there flinch. Sam waited for the inevitable. It seemed ridiculous, how Ruby _still_ was a shadow over their lives, despite everything that has happened.

That she was one of those ghosts they never managed to burn for good.

“Yeah, you would know.” Dean spoke out finally, voice flat and tight and continued over the same breath. “So what now, we wait till another one shows their fugly face around here?”

The metaphorical olive-branch was thin and withered, but Sam nodded his head anyway, swallowed the acidic taste of whatever reply wanted to get out.

“It would seem so…”, he licked his lips, cleared his throat, “The time gaps between each individual combustion have been around from five to seven days. And you know, demons never seem to stay away from us for too long."

Dean nodded, the tension still there, but his fingers were already working on the top two buttons of his white shirt; ever eager to get out of the suit and into something more comfortable. “Fine. Alright. Couple of days and if nothing happens, we’ll go back home, you hear me little brother?”

"Ok" Sam sighed out in agreement and to hell with the fact that he sounded just a little bit breathless.

The insides of his palms were cold and clammy, as he watched Dean move around. And Dean pretended he was unaware of the scrutinizing looks, tried to act like nothing ever happened, like they didn’t just avoid a massive fallout – a fallout they couldn’t afford right now, because fuck, they were barely hanging in there as it were - but still his hand faltered when he reached out, hovered in the air before returning to his side.

"You ok, Sammy?" He asked gruffly; added water to that dried out olive branch.

"Yeah."

"I mean... _Sam._ "

And yeah, Sam knew. He always knew, because that was the way they just were. His heart knew all the undertones Dean spoke with even when his head swam in fever and fear. He looked up then, met his brother's bright gaze. "I’m fine, Dean. If anything…"

Dean nodded, still stiff -  clearly tethering on a chick flick moment there, all awkward and uncertain -  before ditching the pristine white shirt and choosing a safe route of, "You feel like getting some real food into you?"

Today was one of those days that Sam's stomach churned at the very thought of anything solid, but yeah, this wasn't about _food_ anyway.

"I could..." He trailed off, his eyes closing all on their own when in one jerky, uncomfortable motion Dean threaded his fingers quickly through Sam’s hair; gave in to the impulse and reached out for his little brother. They rakes over skin, curled at the back of his skull, warm and solid and _oh God so good_. The gesture was an echo of days long gone, when Sam didn’t quite manage to grow into his coltish limbs just yet, when he both loved and hated his big brother with a burning passion. Now, Sam pressed into the touch greedily, felt the blunt of Dean’s nails, before he spoke out again. Dean’s eyes were oddly bright when Sam looked up. "Yeah, I could go for a shake."

****

The place they went to was called Momma's Big Kitchen and while it hardly was big, it was definitely motherly. And completely unlike the usual places they ate at while away from Lebanon, where Dean took over the kitchen. There were dollies and field flowers on the tables, the interior painted with soft-beiges and sunny yellows, everything warm and homey and welcoming. The air was heavy with spice and the sketchy, harsh writing on the blackboard claimed they had the best milkshakes in the country.

Sam agreed completely with that last statement, his high glass half-empty already and he was already contemplating ordering another one. His stomach seemed to be on board with the idea.

And Dean … Well, Dean looked like the cat that got the tuna _and_ the promise of cream, a smudge of gravy all over his cheek that caused Sam’s fingers to itch with a sudden, burning need to wipe it off. Their waitress kept staring at him from the bar, however, her plain face tight with disbelief. No surprise there, Sam smiled. Dean could eat like a pig and act accordingly.

"Christ can I marry the cook?" Dean sighed happily, full of good food and cold beer, his legs stretched out comfortably under the table, capturing one of Sam's ankles between his own. "As soon as we get you back on the right track, Sammy, we're coming back here, stuffing you with these things. I'm sure they have a garden instead of a salad so you and your rabbit food obsession will be just fine."

Sam grinned, felt like a happy bubble grew inside oh his chest and it was the most welcomed feeling. For days now, the almost finished trials were still taking their toll. There was a constant burn deep within him, there was something crawling inside of his veins and stealing his breath. He never believed he’d come out unscathed, he didn’t believe he’d come out _at all_ in fact, but somehow, right now, he felt _good_.

"Anything else boys?" The waitress was back, bored and seemingly cool as before, and oh yeah, she kept the whole of  her attention on Dean. "Desserts? Coffee?"

She had nails bitten to the quick, Sam noticed when she played with her pencil, and was nothing like the women his brother would once choose. Hair brittle and oddly reminding him of a mouse’s fur, falling in messy waves down to her shoulders; hips a bit too wide and thighs too powerful for her small height. She had eyes in the color of murky sea water – caught somewhere between grey and blue and green - and Sam felt pity. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about her, nothing at all, and Dean hummed in the back of his throat, eyeing the menu and not her and faking indecision. Sam sighed his brother’s name, got his attention and a shit-eating grin.

"We got plum pie." She said finally, popped a minty pale balloon, caused Dean to look at her and then _it_ happened.

Two booths over, a pretty girl screeched all of the sudden, the noise high and inhuman, her skin alit with vivid flames. The stench of charred flesh and scorched hair – hair that a second ago had the golden color of wheat - filled the small diner, filled their lungs and Sam couldn't look away from the sight. She was a glorious blaze, head thrown back and arms aside, her voice nothing more but a gurgle of hot blood and ash.

Then the world sped up.

Someone broke a window, someone started screaming, the noises overlapping as Sam's mind and vision swam and he could only register Dean's hands on him,  him outside as the girl burned and burned.

The girls agonized screeches seemed drilled into his head, echoing in he back of his mind like a stubborn bell. His brother dragged him away from the fire, from the foul stench and the blazing heat of death.

"Her heart burned out of her fucking chest, Sammy," Dean coughed, hands still tightly clutched on the many layers Sam wore, "What the hell s going on here? Sam? Sammy!" Dean shook him a little and he forced himself to look around.

The police arrived in a flur of bright lights and yells, the crowd a tight circle. The smoke slowly cleared – _she was gone, ashes to ashes -_ and there were panic-stricken, tear-soaked faces everywhere around them. The paramedics will have their hands full, he thought feeling slightly detached, a woman unconscious on the pavement not that far away from them, one of the distressed waitresses trying to wake her up.

Sam blinked when his eye stung, forced himself to focus and ignore the too strong, way too familiar hold Dean had on him. Strong, sturdy fingers dug into his skin as he gazed around, and over the crowd he met the eyes of the other waitress; the one from their table, standing in the very back.

The only one who looked straight at them, not at the grisly scene; the one whose eyes were  bland and grey, not blown-wide with panic or fear. Unaffected. She met his gaze, held it, pushed a tuft out of her face.

Her lips curled.

And then was gone.

"Dean." He rasped, his fingers somehow curled tight, so tight around Dean's bicep. He couldn’t let go even if he tried, the world suddenly out of its axis. He focused on the glimmer of golden freckles over Dean’s nose, on the familiar green of his eyes and he knows. "Dean. It's the _other_ girl."

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr


End file.
